The Chronicles
by GwenSilverlake
Summary: A series of events, with a case to crack and featuring the antics of Sherlock and John.


The flat was almost completely silent.

Sherlock sat in an armchair, eyes half-closed, body unmoving. His fingers, resting on the ends of the armrest, twitched in tandem to some unheard melody. He didn't know how long now he'd been in such a position – maybe an hour, maybe three hours – either way it didn't matter.

He was bored.

John was out on a date with Sarah, watching crap telly served him no purpose other than to exasperate him with their mundaneness and utter lack of intellectual stimulation, and his violin had, regretfully, been broken beyond repair, and he was told that he'd have to wait a couple of days for his new violin to be delivered to him.

He closed his eyes and allowed the violin music playing in his head to wash over him.

No new cases, no John, no violin, he couldn't even shoot at the walls because he'd frightened the neighbours the last time he'd done it, and had been threatened with a nuisance lawsuit. Dull as he thought that was, neither he nor John had the money to spare for that sort of thing, and so he reluctantly pledged not to take out his boredom on the wall by shooting real bullets at it.

He heard the front door of the flat opening and closing, and familiar footsteps tramping up the narrow stairway leading up to his floor. The corners of Sherlock's lips lifted to form the slightest hint of a smile – here at last was a piece of distraction.

John entered the flat, pulling his jacket off as he did so. Sherlock heard him hang it up on the coatrack before plopping himself in the other armchair, as he was liable to do when he came home.

For a while, nobody said anything.

"How long have you been like that?" John asked him.

"Hm?'

"You're just sitting there with your eyes closed," said John. "How long have you been…just sitting there?"

"Don't know. Three hours, maybe? It doesn't matter," said Sherlock lazily.

"Well – okay then," said John awkwardly. "Couldn't you find something to do? No new cases?"

"Nothing."

"Violin?"

"Broken. I ordered a replacement, but it won't arrive for another two days."

"Crap telly? Wait, hang on," said John. "_You broke your violin? When? How?_"

"Just yesterday, John," said Sherlock. "You were out with Sarah, you wouldn't have seen it happen."

He may have been imagining it, but John thought he could detect the slightest note of resentment in Sherlock's voice as he said this last sentence.

"It happened to be in an unfortunate place while I was experimenting with a lump of C4 in the kitchen," Sherlock continued, "and was shattered beyond being helped even by my skills of violin maintenance."

John had now been living with Sherlock long enough to know that sentences like "experimenting with a lump of C4 in the kitchen" were perfectly normal occurrences – but that still didn't change the fact that experimenting with C4 in a populated suburban area was certainly illegal and highly dangerous.

"You can't do that in the flat!" said John incredulously.

"Do what?"

"Experiment with C4! In the kitchen!" he hissed. "It's dangerous, you can't do that!"

"Can't do this, can't do that, really John, you seem to have set yourself up for rather a boring life," Sherlock drawled. "You need to liven up."

John snorted - hearing that coming from Sherlock seemed incredibly ridiculous.

"Me? Liven up?" he said with a laugh. "I know how to have fun – the same way most other people do."

"What – go to parties, sit around in bars?"

"Yes," said John indignantly, "those are some of the ways people have fun. And maybe you should try it sometime."

"No thank you, I would rather not," said Sherlock curtly.

"Why not?" John demanded. "You haven't got anything better to do, have you? You can think of it as a - as an experiment. A chance to observe societal habits."

Sherlock's eyes fluttered open. Now that, he had to admit, sounded like a half-decent idea. John had a point – he really _didn't _have anything better to do – and he could always use whatever additional data he could collect from observing society's mundane little habits.

"Alright then," he replied. "I'm bored, and the extra data could always come in handy."

"Well great then," said John, smiling. "Sarah's having a party tomorrow night. You can come with me. She said I could invite you, if you wanted to go."

"What's she having a party for?" asked Sherlock.

"It's – it's her birthday," said John.

"Really, now? Aren't you…getting her a birthday gift, or taking her out for dinner, or something dull like that?"

"I'm going down to the shops to go look for a gift tomorrow."

"I'll come with."

"What? Why?" asked John, surprised. Sherlock + shopping for birthday presents had always been an equation that just didn't add up for him.

"I'm collecting data, remember?" said Sherlock, rolling his eyes. "You're an everyman, John – I'm sure you'll agree with me that most of the things you do match those of other…_"normal" _people," he emphasized on the word "normal", twisting it in derision. "What better way to learn about society than to observe you?"

"That's one way to put it, I suppose," sighed John.

He already knew that he was going to regret having ever challenged Sherlock to socialize more in order to "collect data".

"I'm going to go make some tea," said John, rising from his armchair.

"Make some for me too," Sherlock called after him.

"I'm your flat-mate, Sherlock, not your housekeeper."

* * *

><p>"You're buying her <em>this<em>?" He picked up the ornate glass bottle, uncapping it to sniff at the clear liquid inside. He wrinkled his nose in disgust at the scent. It was terribly…flowery.

"_I'll_ take that, thanks," said John irritably, snatching the bottle of perfume from Sherlock's hands.

"I'm sure there are objects of value that Sarah would find pleasing, other than a bottle full of liquid that smells like the essence of year-old potpourri."

"She'll like it," John insisted. "I know her better than you do, and I know she'll like it."

Sherlock shrugged. "If you say so. But she looks like she'd appreciate new articles of clothing more."

"And how would you know?"

"She never wore any perfume that one day I met her at the Chinese travelling circus," Sherlock began. "People who usually wear perfume wouldn't miss the opportunity to use it on a first date, of all occasions."

"You can't assume that from just one day-"

"And when you come home from visiting her late at night, I can never smell any perfume on you," Sherlock went on. "Judging by the fact that _that_ is the sort of perfume you think she would use," here he indicated the bottle still clutched in John's hands, "I definitely would detect the scent, but I never do – conclusion being, Sarah never wears perfume."

John pressed his lips into a thin line – always the sign of annoyance.

"Fine, fine," he said, admitting defeat. He reached over to put the bottle of perfume back on the shelf. "You've made your point. No perfume for Sarah. What would you suggest, then?"

John doesn't think he will ever be able to erase this memory – him asking _Sherlock _of all people for advice on what to give Sarah for her birthday. Especially if Sherlock actually gave sound advice.

"Well since you asked for my suggestion," said Sherlock with a smile, "I rather think she'd find a scarf favourable…"

* * *

><p>"Happy birthday, Sarah!" said John, smiling widely.<p>

"Oh – John!" said Sarah happily, opening the front door wider. "And…you've brought Sherlock, too! Glad you two could make it. Come on in."

They stepped inside the house, Sarah closing the door behind them. John turned to give her the wrapped gift.

"Uhm – this is for you," said John.

"Well, thank you John," said Sarah, smiling as she took the present. "That's nice of you." She prodded at the package. "Now, what is it?"

"Unwrap it and find out."

John watched nervously as Sarah tore at the cellophane tape and wrapping paper that hid the folded blue scarf underneath, not knowing whether or not he wanted Sherlock to be right in his earlier deductions – on one hand, if Sherlock was right and Sarah did like the gift, then he, John, would have succeeded in getting her the right gift – but he would also be in for an earful of Sherlock's gloating and his irritating "I-told-you-so-you-idiot" looks. Plus he would never be able to live it down, knowing that Sherlock seemed to know Sarah's tastes better despite not having spent much of his free time with her.

But if Sherlock was (and it was dangerous to hope for such a thing) in fact mistaken in his deductions, then John would get the satisfaction of being able to shoot Sherlock "I-told-you-so-you-idiot" looks, the obvious downside being that he would have failed to get Sarah the right gift.

The last of the wrapping paper came off, leaving the folded blue scarf in full view. Sarah unfolded it and held it up in front of her. She was smiling.

"It's lovely, John," she grinned. "It's exactly what I needed."

"R-Really?" said John. "Well that's great. I'm…glad you like it."

He refused to look at Sherlock, whose eyes he could already feel boring into the back of his neck, whose smug face he could well imagine.

At that moment, Sherlock's phone rang. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled it out, glancing at the familiar number displayed on the screen before answering the call.

"Hello?"

"A body's been found at Lauriston Gardens. Will you come?"

Sherlock smiled.

"How could I refuse?

John turned to look at him. "You're leaving?" he asks.

"I've been summoned," said Sherlock curtly. "It's alright, you don't have to follow me, John," he assures him, seeing John look a bit flustered. "I'll be fine. You go ahead and enjoy the…party." He gives them both a nod before sweeping out of the house, his coat flapping behind him the way it always did when he was in a hurry.

"Busy man, isn't he?" Sarah remarked.

"Sometimes, yeah," said John. "He's never one to turn down an opportunity."

"Well I think it's nice of you two," said Sarah, "that crime-solving thing you guys do."

"Thanks," said John with a smile. "Shall we…?"

Sarah tucked her arm under his. "Let's go."


End file.
